


Peeking Through the Tunnel Beyond

by sElkieNight60



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth (Brief), Bruce Wayne Loves Children, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Cassandra Cain (Brief) - Freeform, Damian Wayne (Brief), Dissociation, Gen, HEAVY WHUMP, Heavy Angst, Mentioned past sexual assault, Panic, Panic Attacks, Se.N, Tim Drake (Brief), aftermath of attempted sexual assault, anxiety attack, please mind the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28831641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: The words tumble out like the blocks of a child, clattering to the floor. It's apt, because suddenly he feels no more than twelve years old again. Scared out of his mind after being in the hands of some rogue or another, just needing reassurance, desperate for it. Dick feels like he is falling apart.“Help me, Bruce;” the words no more than a faint croak.Or, Dick Grayson just can't seem to free himself from his past. And this time, Bruce is there.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 19
Kudos: 210





	Peeking Through the Tunnel Beyond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AuroraKant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/gifts).



> Please mind the tags and do let me know if there's any I have missed. This fic deals with the aftermath of sexual assault and I would recommending not reading if that's not your jam/triggering for you.
> 
> (Aurora, I apologise for not working on our collab for three days, this is what I was writing instead 😉. Please accept this humble offering as my surprise reciprocal gift fic ❤️.)

The air about him is still as stone. Heavy. Frozen like a glacier. Dick is alone and the world is askew and _wrong._ He isn't okay. Not even close. In fact, everything feels so far away from okay that it is as though he's seeing in a tunnel through another man's eyes.

He is shaking all over. Undoubtedly he looks a mess; his hair mussed from the rough fingernails that had sharply scraped across his scalp, his clothes ruffled and torn in at least a few places, and the red mark of a hand print sure to blossom into a bruise on his cheek.  
  
The socialite is unconscious on the floor, knocked six feet back after he’d lost control in his desperate attempts to get free of her roaming fingers. She’d stumbled then fallen to the ground, her balance already off from one champagne flute too many. It was because of her inebriation that he’d been gentle with her, dissuading her remarks, smoothly shaking her groping hands when that hadn’t been enough. In the end, none of that had mattered though. She just hadn't seemed to get the hint.  
  
Sinking against the wall, Dick wraps one hand around his midriff as the other comes up to stifle the sob hiccuping its way out of his throat. Already silent tears are loping off his chin, sluicing over his too-warm, flushed cheeks. The past swims in and out of vision, memories of rooftops and slender legs climbing over him to straddle his waist, hands touching him all over, his own fingers shaking as he made to push her off.  
  
Between the staccato rhythm of his own heartbeat doing its best to beat its way out of his chest, the past and the present blur. In the present, his hands won't stop shaking, but every now and then he catches a flash of cerulean blue and seemingly imagines rain splattering his face.

Fruitless he swipes at tears. Maybe he's going into shock.

And it's funny in a disconnected, hysterical kind of way, that his brain latches onto the little things as he sits there, doing his best to control the short, sharp, snatched breaths he takes. The little things, like the fact that his bow tie is now suddenly missing. At some point, he remembers through the haze in his brain, the woman had managed to get it off him.  
  
After a quick glance around the room—although, more a lobby or an antechamber than an actual room—he spies it on the polished marble beside a large, ornamental plant by the skirting boards. Twittering laughter from the ballroom next door floats in. The party seems both too close and worlds away simultaneously.  
  
Dick isn't sure his legs will hold him, should he try to stand, but suddenly, it's more imperative than life itself that he retrieves his bow tie. So, splaying his hands on the floor, Dick crawls. It's not a fast process, his movements upsettingly sluggish, but he manages to cross to the other wall and pick it up with fumbling, unsteady hands. Looping it around his neck, he tries several times to re-tie it, but his efforts prove pointless as his fingers jerk and spasm, still shaking so hard he fears he may shake himself apart.

 _Get it together,_ his brain urges him harshly as his gut churns. _You can't go in there looking like this._

Dick doesn't want to go back in there. A small part of him isn't even sure he can, but the bigger part of him shuts that little voice up. There's no choice, really, he has to go in. Dick has to go back and somehow pretend like this wasn't his fault, like he didn't just accidentally knock a woman unconscious as her hands, steady despite the alcohol, had grazed over his chest in an awful, horrible, _far too familiar_ kind of way.

Once more, his stomach churns. _He's Nightwing. This isn't something that should rattle him._ What would Bruce think? Unable to stop just an average civilian from putting her hands all over him.

Dick has to go into the ballroom, he has to make himself presentable and then go in there and get help for her, but though his mind supplies the steps, he just can't get his limbs to cooperate. Instead, after his sixth or seventh attempt of wrangling his bow tie, he gives up. The piece of uneven fabric falls to the floor.

This was what he got for going to the bathroom at a party. This isn't even the _first_ woman to leave scratch marks or grope him in unsavoury places, but it _is_ the first time he has been affected so.

Sucking in a breath, the world suddenly seems to fall apart. The ghosts of women past flit in and out of his vision, like… like _mirages,_ only there in his mind.

Dick _sobs._ It's loud enough that he has to muffle the sound through his fingers. The noise chokes him. It scratches and tears at his throat in the same way the now-unconscious woman's nails had, ripping and tearing and seeking to reach all parts exposed.

It's far too late to pretend anything by the time his ears catch the sound of footsteps approaching, expensive shoes on the polished marble. Dick freezes at the noise, but it doesn't matter what he does, the inevitable is coming.

The man rounds the corner, dark black leather shoes, well-tailored pants, a familiar jacket suit…

Bruce blinks down at him, startlement already upon his features by the time Dick's eyes draw high enough. Blue eyes meet blue. Bruce must say his name, because Dick sees his mouth move, but it's like hearing radio through static. The protector of Gotham stands before him looking stunned, taking in the sorry sight of Dick and then allowing his eyes to roam over to the woman, sprawled drunkenly on the floor.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his parched mouth, dry as a desert. The words tumble out like the blocks of a child, clattering to the floor. It's apt, because suddenly he feels no more than twelve years old again. Scared out of his mind after being in the hands of some rogue or another, just needing reassurance, desperate for it. Dick feels like he is falling apart.

“Help me, Bruce;” the words no more than a faint croak. And there is no question nor hesitation then, not in the man's eyes nor in his words as he appears by Dick's side instantly.

Bruce falls to his knees, his hands fluttering around Dick's shoulders, not quite sure where to land. Eventually, he pulls out a handkerchief and Dick numbly lets him wipe at his cheeks. The feeling of being small and vulnerable only increases, he really must be a horrible sight for Bruce to treat him with tender, careful hands, as though he's made of glass.

The heat radiating off the man warms the chill out of Dick's bones that he hadn't realised had settled there. He leans into it, relishing the furnace against his side. Bruce doesn't touch him without telegraphing his movements.

The grit Dick is expecting never comes. Instead, Bruce's voice is soft and gentle, the way he used to speak before Gotham had forged him into steel.

“What happened?” he asks, the edge of his tone tempered with the well-concealed heat of white hot fury. If it were directed at Dick, its presence would be far more revealed, but as it is, he somehow knows it's not.

Stomach sinking, he mutely shakes his head. There are words to describe what happened, but Dick just doesn't have them. Luckily, Bruce seems to understand.

“It's alright,” he hushes, wrapping an arm around Dick's shoulders. It's not unlike being covered by the cape of the batsuit. It's bracing against the cold. “It's going to be okay, I promise.”

And it hits him then, that Bruce can make no such promises. It's a bold faced lie, but _god_ , Dick wants to believe it anyway.

The woman stirs, a small groan, her limbs shifting.

Bruce does then what he does best. Takes action.

“Do you think you can stand?” he asks Dick quietly, a hand diving into his pocket, fumbling for his phone. It takes less than a moment to text whoever he intends to, and then his concerned frown his back on Dick yet again.

His knees still feel like jelly, but he nods anyway. For all of Dick's high-flying, he still considers Bruce a net, even after all they've been though. The highs and the lows. If he falls, the man will catch him. And as Dick rises, he does stumble, to which Bruce's hand comes out to steady him by the elbow.

“I'll let Alfred know we're intending to retire early tonight. I've sent Cass to fetch Damian from the buffet table. Tim's on his way.”

It's all the precision and order Dick's come to expect from Batman, though the directives are spoken in a tone careful enough to soothe. Beneath the invisible, but sure and protective wing of the Bat, his first Robin trembles.

“Don't tell them,” Dick blurts, pleading, eyes wide. “Please.” He can't stand the though of his younger siblings knowing. Knowing that he couldn't keep a single drunk woman's hands off him. Knowing that he couldn't control his reactions. _Knowing anything about the reasons why, all hidden in his past._

The horrible, understanding, _knowing_ in Bruce's own eyes is enough. Maybe not the details. But Dick knows Bruce has seen enough to put the puzzle pieces together.

Bruce just shakes his head. “Alright,” he replies, quickly retrieving the bow tie from the floor. With deft fingers he does it up nicely for Dick, flattening out his hair and straightening his suit jacket along the way. “Alright, I won't.”

It's not the end of this conversation between them, but for now, it gets moved past the bench to the bleachers. For now, that's enough.

There's a lungful of air in his chest that Dick hadn't known he was holding. It deflates like sighing balloon.

The woman on the ground slowly begins to sit up, while at the same time, two young men enter the room, both laughing at something one or the other has said. They stop in surprise at the scene confronting them.

The woman clutches at her head. Dick shudders. Bruce's fingers curl protectively around his upper shoulder, an arm slung over.

Bruce tilts his body _just so,_ partly putting himself between Dick and prying eyes as Brucie manifests.

“Oh dear,” he chuckles pityingly, just loud enough for the room to hear. The faux sympathy upon his features is certainly good enough to make anyone believe he's truly worried for her, but Dick can see through the façade like a pencil to tracing paper. “Looks like my lovely lady might have had a little too much tonight.”

It's a good deception. The way Bruce acts. The way he seems to pretend they only just happened upon her themselves, entering from the opposite exitway. The way his words are enough to subtly kick the two younger men into action; only in their thirties, but clearly the sons intending to inherit their fathers respective companies, whatever they may be.

They hurry over to her, at least one dropping to his knees. Whether for chivalry, or genuine kindness, or even simply because they're under the scrutinous gaze of the infamous Bruce Wayne―because _no one_ at these parties doesn't recognise the face of the wealthiest man in Gotham―they help the woman stand. It's clear from the shaking of her head that she's dazed and confused. In all honesty, Dick wouldn't be surprised if she didn't remember getting knocked to the ground, it all happened so fast anyway. She might be easily convinced she fell, even.

“Will you both stay with her?” Brucie continues, though an order more than a question, the light worry in his voice doing a good job of fooling the trio a few feet from them.

“Yes, sir,” one of the young men calls back. “We'll make sure she sees a doctor.” There's a glint in the young man's eye, an astuteness that the other lacks. That is the one who will do great things with his family's company. But for now.

“Come on Dickie,” Brucie says loudly, like a blustering gale as he sweeps Dick out of the room with a clap on the shoulder and a gesture to the door. “Let us give the young lady some space.”

And with that, they're gone from the room. Tim comes in from nowhere, flanking his left, while Damian and Cass catch up just a short moment later, the two of them still laden with finger foods. Damian presses a berry tart into Dick's hand and, with a glare that it wouldn't do to disobey, orders him to eat it. The food tastes like cardboard on his tongue, but he scarf’s it down anyway and earns a satisfied sideways glance, about as subtle as a foghorn.

Bruce never releases his shoulder, nor allows his gaze to wander far. It's a sure sign that there will be more to come. Questions to be answered, truths to be unearthed. But in this moment, there is none of that. Only a steady, safe grip on his shoulder and his family on all sides.

“We'll be missed,” Dick manages about halfway to the car, where he can see Alfred standing with hands folded atop another, awaiting them. “At the gala,” he elaborates. “Someone will notice the sudden absence of _all_ the Wayne's. They'll suspect something. They'll… they'll assume… something.”

Bruce waves he free hand in a disregarding manner as he snorts derisively. “Let them assume. Let them wonder. That's not a party we want to be at anyway.” To Dick, he leans in close, and in his ear he confirms. “Not the crowd.”

The small squeeze says more than words.

 _Nobody lays a finger on you. I'm proud you defended yourself. I love you._ It says all these things and more. And in return, all Dick can do is swallow roughly and nod. Barely a worthy acknowledgement, but enough. Always just enough.

The air about them is still as stone. Heavy. Dick isn't alone now. He isn't okay, he's not even close. But there's a light, a light he can see, peeking through the tunnel beyond. This isn't the first step towards anything, but maybe soon he'll be able to take it.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos if you liked this work! Also, if you want to make a new friend, come chat with me at [Tumblr](https://selkienight60.tumblr.com/).


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